Monthly Archives: August 2013

you lead a lousy life so die but worries about the one’s you’ll be leaving behind;

but death is best felt when it touches you,its an incentive if you lived to tell about it

though most of those who survived failed on being a good storyteller.

this can be my last poem and the last story that ran in my head like a super 8 was my brother’s boss’ death :

drop dead on the floor after playing badminton.

and as i write down these words i feel death’s caress on my nape. i feel it blurring my sighti feel it thumping my chest. i feel it tiring my knees.i see my father’s image and how his image fits in here;

” death is like scoring junk the first time “let me say it once again.” you don’t really know what happens next. ” ———-

the elderly man seems to be having difficulty standing up; in his face lies the impression of being amused as if a life altering event had happened and it took his breath away.

a couple of minutes ago, he was staring hard and dead straight to a woman who was dress up in corporate attire and skirt hiked up and the usual thighs open for the taking of every one’s eyes;

between timid pauses and glaring looks, he was on the look out for any one looking at him — the sight lasted for a solid twenty five minutes, enough to have this grown man sigh; considering their custom of fixedmarriages, this elderly man if singleis either full of it and getting somepiece of meat somewhere and hewas being natural or not getting it at all and with an uncaringly beautiful long – legged white woman poking on his imagination, things can go awry in the middle section and so when it came to his stop, he was adamant to get off the train —

his name echoed from nowhere; someone shouted and pointed us to him.the street leading to his place was muddy. it had rained the night before and people who all looked like iggy pop are all lined up like empathy dollsscratching for some piece of action and as we passed by, i felt an all familiar feeling worthy of comparison to raoul duke’s paranoia — this must be good,I calmly convinced myself as I feel the heat and scrutiny of their eyes. the crazier the people, the better the drugs we can score.

his name echoed from nowhere and his place recalls tree houses;we had to climb up and get inside this little hole,“ for safety and precautionary measures “ R said in case of a drug bust. inside, the mans’ place was fit enough for three.it was perfect and once inside, we finally meet the man —

his face and his body spelled U-N-D-E-R-S-T-O-O-D —–understood, meaning that he’s the real deal.understood, meaning that he’s been in the block for a long time now.understood, meaning that he got the stuff.understood, meaning that he’s going to wire us up good.introductions was made, we handed the money and he told us to sit down;

R who had never slept for three days was rambling, his thoughts was all over the place — he asks for a long bed for us to stay awake.and the man obliged. and the man did ordered somebody andthis somebody ordered somebody who ordered somebody to get it.

the man was a virtuoso, made a burner just using his mere fingers…

” i will learn a lot from this man “, I said.

the

ritual

began

hail of smokes are coming out of my fingertips —” gusto mo ng pipe ? ” R asked.” di. tuter lang ako “, i answered.R was letting me go all the way. he had his fillor had a change of mind and just wanna try sleeping later tonite which of course, is bullshit.

invisible cool wraps my head within three minutes —all the bug inside my head disappeared and wasreplaced by someone talkin’ lowbrow poetry;

words verses metaphors symbolisms all a blur —the man and R exchanges in putting the final toucheson the residue like some collaborative painting.

“ man make gods out of chemicals within minutes “

his name echoed from nowhere and we sat still for another 10 minutesand converse and shook hands and made promises before we leave.

rain was already pouring and nobody on the hallway except a child playing with her slippers on the mud filled water on the pavement.

R was wearing a hoodie. the invisible cool is my fucking umbrella.

there’s an ancient like ambiance walking in the rain and having your shoes soaked with mud. there’s an incense like smell all around the slum.a zen like feeling as we walk by people after peoplecrammed inside flop houses, sitting in stools,slumped on the side of the streets, not minding the water dripping on their back — on an altered state of mind,everything that can be sensed can be mistaken for something.

” dito ako tinutukan ” said R, pertaining to what happened to him one week ago when a kid pointed a knife on him and ran away with the stuff; the street was narrow and no lights at nights, a rather fine backdrop of a noir crime scene set up.indeed — only in the Philippines.

tell me, is there something wrongwith a bookstore that has the same stocksof bukowski poetry anthologies, and beat novels; the same copy of american splendor collection and basketball diaries all getting friendly with dusts ?

c’mon and tell me what’s wrongwith a record store that has the same piles of old blues and jazz records from monk to archie shepp,from cecil taylor to nina simone,from howlin wolf to stevie ray vaughan;even the same soundtracks :like the last king of scotland, o brother where art thou, lady killers, cold mountaineven empire records or trainspotting or garden state or wonder boys —been on sale from 10 aed to 5 aedwithin a month ?